


would someone care to classify our broken hearts and our twisted minds

by lover_of_many_things



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Canon deaths, F/F, Gen, If you see a mistake, kind of Canon Divergent because I decided Gideon and Harrow didn't meet until she was four, let's talk about the inherent trauma, no beta we die like cavaliers, no you didn't, of being told as a child that you were made by killing children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29346120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lover_of_many_things/pseuds/lover_of_many_things
Summary: Harrowhark Nonagesimus was never a child, but she vividly remembered the night she truly discovered what that meant.or*pats Harrow on the back* This baby can fit so much trauma.
Relationships: Gideon Nav & Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	would someone care to classify our broken hearts and our twisted minds

**Author's Note:**

> This is just my take on how all the things that happened to Harrow as a child might have effected her as time went on. Also my first fic for TLT, woo! 
> 
> I tried something new stylistically that I haven't done before, so please let me know if it was effective! (I feel like you'll know what I mean)
> 
> Title is from Misguided Ghosts by Paramore

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was never a child, but she vividly remembered the night she truly discovered what that meant. Before she was able to comprehend what the nightly prayers with her great aunts meant, she was just following their lead and repeating words. It was just a normal part of her nightly routine in her cell; it faded into the other prayers said throughout the day.

She was four when she finally understood what her aunts had been trying to say through the prayers. Like any other night her great aunts had led her in the prayer; the words falling easily from her lips, memorized already. They felt heavier that night, more solid on her tongue as she spoke them out into her room. 

After she had finished the usual forty-five minutes, her parents collected her from her cell—not touching her, rarely did her parents ever touch her beyond guiding hands and light brushes. She rarely saw them outside of daily prayer and they never spoke to her unless they found it necessary. That night turned out to be a time of necessity. They stood as they always did, backs straight and hands clasped in front of them, called for her, and waited until she came to stand next to them. Her parents and aunts nodded briefly to each other in acknowledgement before they walked down the hall. Harrow followed a few steps behind them, trying to keep pace with her short legs without tripping in her robes. 

Her parents walked into their cell, closing and locking the door behind Harrow as she entered. Her mother hurried over to one of the stone walls—she pressed her arms against it until it shifted, stone grinding against stone as a passageway opened. Harrow followed her parents down the dark passageway until they entered a room she had never been in before. The walls were the same stone as the passageway and the room was cold—the air thick. The usual sulfurous smelling Ninth air tinted with salt. Harrow looked around the small room, her eyes quickly falling on the pool of water in the center.

Her parents climbed into the pool, robes and all, and motioned for her to get in as well, paying no mind to the fact that she didn’t know how to swim. She only hesitated a moment before she stepped carefully down each step into the pool, the water immediately soaking and weighing down her black robes. The new weight threw Harrow’s balance off and her foot slipped on the last step, throwing her out into the depths of the pool. She tried to find her footing, but she was much too small; her feet kicked helplessly against the dragging weight of fabric, head bobbing dangerously in and out of the water. 

After several long moments of struggling, she felt her father’s hand push her back and guide her onto the last step. Cold, salt water sloshed in and out of her mouth and lungs as she coughed and tried to keep her head above water, standing on the tips of her toes—the last step still deep for the four-year-old. 

It was with the taste of salt on her tongue, trying to keep her head above water that her parents told her what she was in a way she could finally understand. They spoke calmly and clinically as if they were talking about the season’s food production. They spoke of it as an unfortunate necessity—the genocide of an entire generation. Of course, Harrow hadn’t understood it as such yet. What young Harrow understood was—everyone else had died for her to live. They were all stuck inside her and the reason why she was able to build things with bones. _She_ was the reason everyone seemed sad all the time—even if they didn’t know it. _She_ was the reason the Ninth was so quiet, so lonely. _She_ was the reason she didn’t have any friends. She felt her lungs filling with water, though every time she coughed no more water came out of her.

So no, Harrow was never a child—never a person. She was an abomination. She was a thanergetic construct just like all the skeletons surrounding her. 

She was a tomb. 

After that night, every day following her prayers with her aunts she would lie awake and try to imagine all the souls inside her—try to imagine all the friends she might have had. She had never seen another child though; she didn’t think Ortus counted, and the image of tiny adults that she recognized disturbed her. Instead, they always took the form of what she knew and understood best—skeletons. Two hundred skeletons, varying in size and shape, all trying to talk to her but unable to, or at least she assumed they were trying to talk to her because their mouths never stopped moving ( ~~she hadn’t yet figured out they were screaming~~ ). Her mind an endless cacophony of rattling that rivalled the daily prayers. She fell asleep to the sound of two hundred jaws clacking together.

Harrow knew from then on that she had to be the best Reverend Daughter—the best necromancer—that she could be; not for her parents but for every single soul inside of her, so that maybe one day all the rattling in her head might finally quiet. She painted her face every day, she attended every prayer, every muster, every lesson without complaint like the dutiful Ninth necromancer she was destined to be. 

* * *

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was never supposed to meet Gideon Nav, but she vividly remembered the day that she did. Her parents made sure that Harrow and Gideon were never in the same place at the same time, leaving Aiglamene with the task of wrangling Gideon. Harrow wasn’t sure if the plan could have ever truly worked, the Ninth was small and Gideon certainly wasn’t ( ~~her presence filled every room she entered~~ ), but to her parents’ credit it had worked for four years. Her parents had simply underestimated Gideon’s tenacity ( ~~they always had~~ ). 

Harrow was at one of her lessons in the library, improving her reading—she had the basics down, but couldn’t quite grasp the necromantic tomes yet—when she was disturbed by the sound of someone yelling and pitching a fit from the entry way of Drearburgh. It was a voice she had never heard before and louder than she had ever heard anyone ever speak. Being raised in Drearburgh, one became used to quiet; many nuns had taken vows of silence and most everyone else never spoke above a mellow timbre other than Sister Glaurica. Ortus would sometimes dramatically raise his voice as he recited poetry he had written, but even that wasn’t as loud as this. There was always the low droning of the clacking of bones from the reanimated skeletons and knuckle bones ( ~~and the many in her head~~ ), but that had become barely noticeable white noise.

Harrow was equal parts annoyed and intrigued by the sound, so she quickly saved her place in the book, hopped down from the chair, and crept out of the library. She was careful not to alert any of the nuns sorting through tomes, who surprisingly seemed wholly unaffected by the noise, as if they were used to it. She made her way out into the hall and peeked around the corner into the entry hall where she saw—a child. There was another child in Drearburgh, who looked to be about her age with bright red hair, currently being dragged by the arm by Aiglamene toward the sanctuary ( ~~one of the skeletons in her mind grew brown skin and red hair~~ ). The child was simply shouting “No!” repeatedly, digging in their heels as much as they could to stop forward progress. 

“Gideon, you are being foolish. Stop trying to run away and commit to your studies. You may not be a necromancer, but you may yet still be a nun.” Aiglamene easily dragged Gideon further into the depths of Drearburgh, as Gideon just kept shouting. 

Harrow stood there in shock. She wasn’t alone. She was not the last daughter of the Ninth. The rattling in her head got louder as she stood there; had it all been a lie? Had she simply been kept from all the other children for some reason? Were there others? She didn’t know how long she stood hidden there before a little body with vibrant red hair ran past again and out the door, blowing a raspberry over their shoulder. Harrow didn’t even think before chasing after ( ~~it started a horrible pattern~~ ). 

Harrow followed the child to a part of the Ninth she had never been to before, though she had barely even left her room. Most of her time was spent within the walls of Drearburgh, within the walls of her cell even. The child turned into a small random outcropping of rock that wasn’t quite a cave and Harrow slowed to a walk ( ~~it didn’t behoove a Reverend Daughter to run, Harrowhark~~ ). She peeked her head around the rock to see a girl hunched over her knees, breathing heavily. Harrow watched her for a moment; it seemed like she was actually there—her red hair sticking up in all directions as her head bent over, her breaths audible. Still, Harrow had never seen anyone else like her. She had to check ( ~~always be absolutely certain in your convictions, Harrowhark~~ ).

“Are you real?” Harrow asked quietly, but the girl still startled, falling onto her butt before she found Harrow’s painted face in the dim light. She looked surprised for a moment before her face scrunched up.

“Are you dumb?” The girl retorted. 

Harrow furrowed her brow, stomped her foot, and suddenly two little skeletal hands burst from the random piles of bones to grab the girl’s wrists and pin her to the ground. The girl—G-something, Harrow couldn’t remember—yelped in surprise and tried to struggle against the hands. She pulled her arms and thrashed her body around wildly, but the small skeletal hands kept their grip on her. “What—are—you—doing!?” The girl was loud, but that was mostly to cover up her panic. Harrow didn’t answer, just watched her struggle for a moment.

She finally walked fully into the outcropping and bent over the other girl, poking her bare face in the forehead—Harrow had never really seen someone’s bare face before, not up close. The girl stopped struggling at that and looked up at Harrow with her startling, gold eyes. “Huh.” Harrow mumbled as she poked again, just to be sure, before a drop of blood dropped from her nose and onto the other girl’s face. She suddenly felt woozy and disintegrated the hands before sitting down, wiping at her nose and wrapping her arms around her knees. 

“Gross!” The other girl complained and quickly wiped her forehead clean as soon as her arms were free. She scrambled into a sitting position across from Harrow and just watched her for a moment. Harrow watched her right back; she had never to spoken to anyone that was her age for obvious reasons ( ~~we did what needed to be done for the future of the Ninth~~ ) and the skeletons in her mind couldn’t really speak. 

“Are there more?” Harrow picked at the skin of her arms. The other girl glared at her, still rubbing her forehead.

“What?”

“…children.”

“Oh,” The other girl—Grindie?—shook her head and mirrored Harrow’s position, hugging her knees. “Aiglamene said they’re all gone—they all got sick.” ( ~~we filled the room with a gas that killed them quickly; it was a small mercy.~~ ) It was just the two of them. Harrow felt some of the liquid that had filled her lungs all those nights ago start to drain out, maybe it didn’t have to all be on her ( ~~all of that was necessary to make you, Harrowhark, so that you may lead the Ninth to a better future~~ ).

“Why’d you run away, Griddle?” The girl scrunched up her face and tossed a small pebble at Harrow, hitting her leg. Harrow jolted a bit at the casual attack, she had never had a rock thrown at her for asking a simple question before. 

“’Cause I hate it here...and my name is _Gideon_ .” Gideon’s name registered in Harrow’s mind but didn’t really sink in; she was still stuck on the first statement. Harrow really couldn’t comprehend that—hating the Ninth. She _was_ the Ninth—that’s what her parents told her all the time. ( ~~you must not let their sacrifice have been in vain, Harrowhark~~ ) Harrow was the Ninth, she was the future, she was…everything the Ninth had left. And if this girl hated the Ninth, this girl hated her.

“Maybe if you didn’t run away, you’d hate it less, Griddle.” Translated through Harrow’s brain this was an offering of friendship. Even if this girl hated her, she didn’t yet have a reason to return that hate. Gideon shook her head; she returned her hands to the dirt surrounding her.

“One day I’m gonna run so far away that I won’t even be able to see Drearburgh. I’ll go all the way to space to join the Cohort.” Gideon clenched her fist in the dirt as she spoke. Harrow couldn’t explain the panic that filled her with that statement, just that she didn’t want to be alone again ( ~~there were two hundred children in the Ninth before you were conceived~~ )—would do anything not to be left alone with the rattling of two hundred skulls in her brain, even if Gideon hated her. 

She opened her mouth to respond when she heard rapidly approaching footsteps. Moments later, as Gideon hopped to her feet, Aiglamene appeared at the entrance of the outcropping, flanked by both of Harrow parents. They looked as calm as ever, hands clasped in front of them, but there were small streaks in their paint that showed the trails that the sweat from their brows had taken ( ~~you are the only child left of the entire generation. you are the child born from the entire generation~~ ). Her father cleared his throat before speaking as monotonous as ever, warning her she’d be late for prayer. 

He gestured for her as Aiglamene put her hand on Gideon’s shoulder and steered her away. Gideon just groaned. Harrow watched as her parents kept their eyes on Gideon the entire time until she was out of their sight. Her mother placed a quick hand on her back to force her forward, startling Harrow, but the damage had already been done. Harrow’s mind had already been filled with thoughts of the girl her parents had spent four years keeping her away from; the only person that proved she wasn’t alone. 

That night after her prayers, her parents directed her back to the room with the pool of water ( ~~if ever you must tell someone an important secret, it must be done submerged in salt-water, Harrowhark~~ ). Her parents submerged themselves in the pool yet again. Harrow took slow steps down into the pool, stopping on the last stair, balancing on the tips of her toes, water sloshing up her nose. She felt the water filling her lungs again ( ~~they felt the gas filling their lungs~~ ), her coughing still dry. 

Her parents told her to stay away from Gideon as much as possible. They told her that Gideon shouldn’t be alive; she should have died with all the others ( ~~two hundred skeletons rattle in her brain with one red headed girl yelling and struggling against them~~ ). They didn’t know how Gideon had survived and that made her a danger they had to keep under control ( ~~you must always think of the good of the Ninth, Harrowhark~~ ). Gideon couldn’t leave; it would raise questions ( ~~she wouldn’t be alone~~ ).

Her parents made sure she understood, watching with cold and calculating eyes, before they exited the pool. Harrow followed after her parents and continued on to her own cell where Crux was waiting to help her get ready for bed. When she climbed into bed that night, the rattling of the two hundred skeletons was more subdued, and she decided then and there that she would make sure Gideon stayed with the Ninth ( ~~that Gideon stayed with her~~ ).

From then on, Harrow started to find reasons to be near enough to Gideon to “accidentally” encounter her. She would insist to Crux that she wanted to walk the grounds in order to get closer looks at the various skeletons. She took her demonstrations of building constructs outside so that she didn’t disturb the nuns reading in the library. Her parents didn’t notice the change of routine, but Harrow rarely saw them outside of the sanctuary most days. 

With her new routine, Harrow started seeing Gideon multiple times a week; she was usually running to or from something, always moving. Harrow would always stop her with a called “Griddle!” before starting some broken conversation which usually then led to arguing, and then to fighting ( ~~she was never supposed to live, Harrowhark. she is a danger~~ ). When they were that young, Harrow always gave it worse than she took—Gideon had nothing but her little arms to fend of the different constructs Harrow could build ( ~~but she had already survived Harrow once~~ ). 

The next time Gideon had tried to run away, Harrow saw her red hair sneak onto one of the shuttles. Harrow ran. She ran and threw out her earrings, growing out skeletal hands that moved ahead of Harrow and onto the shuttle. There was the sound of a small crash and a small sound of triumph made, as Harrow finally made it to the shuttle, out of breath. Gideon had taken one of the crates on the shuttle and dropped it onto the hands, crushing them. Harrow made two new hands from some of her other earrings and tackled Gideon to the floor of the shuttle. They grappled, pulling and scratching at each other as they rolled about before Gideon pinned Harrow to the floor.

“Hah! I win!” Gideon huffed out, “now leave me alo—ah!” Her words were cut off as she was dragged by her ankles out of the shuttle by two skeletal hands. Harrow scrambled up and quickly followed. Gideon was kicking and grabbing for the hands, but to no avail. They dragged her out into the dirt and Harrow pinned down Gideon’s arms, sitting on top of her as the hands at her ankles reverted back to the tiny pieces of bone. Harrow felt the blood sweat running down her face, mixing with the paint but she let it congeal, not wanting to give Gideon any openings. Gideon struggled but couldn’t find any purchase. 

A minute later the shuttle left, Gideon stopped struggling, and Harrow filled with relief. Harrow collapsed with exhaustion on top of Gideon, her face pressed into the other girl’s shoulder. “You are forbidden to leave, Griddle.” Gideon pushed Harrow off her and into the dirt. 

“I hate you.” Gideon got up and ran away, leaving Harrow in the dirt. Harrow slowly sat up ( ~~there are some goals that require sacrifice, from yourself and from others, but that goal must be worth the sacrifice~~ ). She dusted off her robes and walked back to the library to continue her extra lessons for the day. 

That day started a pattern that continued for years. Harrow made it a point to always try to be the one to foil Gideon’s escape plans; as long as she was focused on doing what was necessary—keeping Gideon here—her parents allowed the interactions between them. They bickered, they argued, they fought to a brutal degree at times. 

Harrow continued her studies, becoming a true bone adept, as it was decided Gideon could absolutely never be a nun, and she started training with a sword instead. Gideon had her mind set on joining the Cohort. Harrow spent nearly every waking moment studying and practicing, trying desperately to be enough for the dead children, to be worth the sacrifice ( ~~they had started to become distinguishable in their ambiguity~~ ). How could one child be worth two hundred? 

Harrow had started studying the Locked Tomb. What exactly was inside that made her existence worth it? ( ~~“Nothing! Nothing!” Screamed two hundred ghosts.~~ ) She knew by then that she was monstrous, and that the Tomb would have to hold something far more monstrous than she.

* * *

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was never supposed to open the Locked Tomb, but she vividly remembered the day that she managed to accomplish it. She had been studying the Tomb for nearly a year in secret, reading tome after tome about all of the precautions and protections put in place within the Locked Tomb. She geared all her studies toward getting past every last protection ( ~~I~~ ~~pray the Tomb is shut forever~~ ). 

The day she finally decided she was ready to enter the Tomb started like any other day ( ~~rattling~~ ), with fighting Gideon. They crossed paths on Harrow’s way to the Tomb, which was in a way fortuitous. If Harrow considered whatever was inside the Tomb unworthy of the graveyard inside of her, she planned to walk out of the airlock ( ~~gas filling up their lungs, suffocating them~~ ). If this was going to be her last time seeing Gideon, she would make it worthwhile. 

She used as few skeletons as possible; one to disarm Gideon and one to toss her to the floor. Harrow was already on top of Gideon as they traded physical blows. Gideon tried to punch and kick Harrow off as Harrow dug her nails into Gideon’s arms to stay in place. Harrow pushed one arm through Gideon’s defenses and placed a hand on her cheek ( ~~it was an apology. it was a goodbye~~ ), forcing her face into the ground. “Stay out of my way, Griddle.” 

With that, Harrow got off of Gideon, and Gideon swatted her hand out to hit Harrow once more in the leg. Harrow ignored the last jab and continued on toward the Tomb, her hands still covered in droplets and splatterings of Gideon’s blood. The rest of the way was easy to traverse, and Harrow didn’t encounter anyone else—most of the nuns avoided this area of Drearburgh entirely. In only a few minutes, she was standing in front of the Tomb, the large stone looming over Harrow’s miniscule body ( ~~I~~ ~~pray the rock is never rolled away~~ ).

Given all the effort the Ninth House has put into praying that the Tomb was never opened, it was alarmingly easy for Harrow to open—of course she had studied and was born specifically to be a necromancer, but it was mildly concerning. Harrow bypassed trap after trap as she entered the Locked Tomb, making sure that any wards she passed would not harm her but still work on another individual. It took her less than an hour before she stood in front of the inner entrance, a closed mausoleum the only thing between her and what remained in the Tomb. 

Harrow created several large constructs, using them to push against the stone door of the mausoleum, moving it inch by inch until there was a big enough space for Harrow’s small ten-year-old body to squeeze through. She felt the blood sweat coating her body but knew she could keep going—she had to keep going ( ~~you must always push yourself, Harrowhark. you cannot be the best if you let yourself give into weakness~~ ). She squeezed her way past the rock, placing her bloodied hands against the wall and flattening her arm, making herself as small as possible. It was a tight squeeze, but after a few suffocating moments she was in. Harrow was inside the Locked Tomb. 

The first thing that she noticed was the large block of ice. It stood in the middle of the room, unmelting. Next were the chains coming from holes in the ground that led back to the block of ice. Harrow stepped forward, wary of all the stories she had been told and had read about the capabilities of this body. Harrow looked up into the ice and she saw—“Oh…” The breath she was holding left her. Harrow gazed upon the Body and for a brief moment she couldn’t hear the rattling inside her anymore. She found herself reaching out to touch the ice, willing for the girl frozen in time inside to open her eyes ( ~~I~~ ~~pray that which was buried remains buried, insensate, in perpetual rest with closed eye and stilled brain~~ ). 

The Body didn’t move, of course, but Harrow decided that moment that she wanted to be alive for if ever it decided to wake. She stared at the Body for a bit longer before leaving. The rattling started again ( ~~two hundred for one to guard a frozen young woman~~ ). Harrow slid the stone back into place and reset every ward that she needed to one her way out. With one final glance back into the Tomb, she made her bone constructs replace the outer rock, once again locking the Locked Tomb. 

Harrow made her way back to her cell but was intercepted on her way there by Crux who told her that her parents had summoned her. Harrow headed to her parents’ cell, surprised to see Gideon leaving, and sticking her tongue out at her, as she entered. She closed the door behind her and watched her parents walk around the room along with Mortus, the Cavalier Primary of the Ninth House. They moved furniture around and placed four chairs underneath one of the low hanging ceiling beams in the room.

“Reverend Mother, Reverend Father, you summoned me?” Harrow’s eyes flitted around the room, trying to make sense of the strange behavior of the adults around her. Her father paused in front of her and told her that Gideon had seen her enter the Locked Tomb ( ~~you have committed an unforgiveable sin against God, Harrowhark, we must do what is necessary~~ ). The clattering of bones inside of her grew louder. She watched as Mortus, her mother, and her father all tied nooses. They were quiet in their actions, accepting—serene, even. Mortus set about hanging his from the rafter as Harrow’s parents approached her. They laid the rope in her hand and delicately, lovingly ( ~~they had never touched her with such kindness before~~ ), guided her through tying her own noose. 

Once finished, her parents joined Mortus in tying their nooses around the rafter—they didn’t even wait. They all slid the nooses onto their necks and Harrow couldn’t help but think of the Body, the thick, cold chain wrapped around her neck. Mortus went first, ever the faithful Cavalier; he stepped off of the chair and his body immediately began convulsing, kicking the chair over in his struggling. Harrow tore her eyes away to look at her parents.

Pelleamena Novenarius and Priamhark Noniusvianus smiled at their daughter for the first time in her life as they stepped off of their chairs.

* * *

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was never supposed to continue living, but she vividly remembered the moment she chose to do so. Harrow watched as her parents’ bodies moved with more urgency and desperation than she had even seen in her life. She looked down at the noose in her hands, fingers skimming along the knot, the rattling echo ever present in her mind. She looked back up at her parents; their movements had settled into twitching ( ~~that goal must be worth the sacrifice~~ ). They stopped twitching after a few more minutes and just swayed soothingly. Harrow watched her parents hang and watched as two hundred skeletons tightened the ropes even further until their purple skin could be seen through the cracks of their white paint. 

Harrow stared down at the rope in her hands, feeling every fiber, when a hand reached out and covered hers. She looked up, startled, into the beautiful face that had caused all of this. The Body shook her head. Harrow looked down at their hands and realized she couldn’t feel the Body’s touch. Harrow tried to reach up and grasp the Body’s hand—she was already gone. Harrow dropped her arms, the noose dangling from one of her hands, skimming the ground. She looked back up at her parents ( ~~you must always think of the good of the Ninth, Harrowhark~~ ), and she knew she had to live ( ~~amongst the rattling she heard a scream that sounded a lot like her~~ ).

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there looking at her parents and Mortus ( ~~God will see us killed by his own hand. it is more repentant to do so ourselves~~ ), but eventually they stilled. Harrow heard the door open again behind her, turned, and saw Gideon—a person who hated her so fervently ( ~~the one person she could never give up~~ )—followed by Crux. Gideon stopped in the doorway, and Harrow watched as her eyes widened at the bodies before flicking down to her and the rope still hanging from her hand. Harrow let the rope slip from her fingers and onto the floor ( ~~this knot is fairly simple, Harrowhark, see?~~ ). Gideon left as quickly as she could. 

Crux walked past Harrow, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath as he moved to take the bodies down from the rafters. Mortus’ body dropped to the ground with a thud. Crux moved to her parents. “Take them down gently, Crux, we still have use of them. Though my parents have left me in charge of the Ninth, the other houses would not take kindly to that…leave their bodies to me. I will do what I must for the good of the Ninth.”

Crux opened his mouth to speak, but Harrow only heard the clacking of two hundred jaws together. He seemed to be in agreement, however, and gently lowered her parents’ bodies into the nearby chairs. Harrow stepped forward as Crux moved aside, touching each of her parents on a hand, using her necromancy to preserve to bodies. Harrow wiped the blood sweat from her painted face and turned away from the bodies to address Crux. “For now, the Reverend Mother and Father have taken a vow of silence and have increased their daily contemplation; they are not to be disturbed for any reason. If the matter is urgent, they have requested that I liaison the issue for them. Tell only those who you deem necessary: Aiglamene and my aunts, should they become suspicious.” Crux nodded.

Harrow ( ~~two hundred dead children and the two who killed them~~ ) left the room, sparing a single glance to the noose on the floor, before she closed the door behind her and headed toward the library. She couldn’t stop now; she had theorems to research. 

* * *

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was never sure what was real ( ~~always be absolutely certain in your convictions, Harrowhark~~ ), but she vividly remembered the year that the Body visited her. She spent most of her time studying in the library the year after her parents died. She had found and figured out the theorems that allowed her to puppet their corpses after a few weeks; they couldn’t speak but they could move, and she could work with movement. From there, she advanced her studies. 

The Body visited frequently as she studied, reading over her shoulder, or sitting across from her. The Body never spoke, but Harrow started to be able to read some of her facial expressions. No one else could see the Body, but Harrow was certain the Body was there. She would stay up at night, waiting—hoping to see it once more. 

She spent the better part of that year wasting away, waiting, and watching as she studied and puppeted her parents from place to place. Crux eventually took to telling Harrow what was real and what was not ( ~~the Body is locked away in the Tomb as it should be~~ ). Crux guided her mind until the Body disappeared ( ~~it had left her too~~ ). 

The moments of that year that were not filled with the Body were filled with Gideon. Their fights had escalated, as Harrow finally started to hate Gideon back with all the fervor she was hated by ( ~~why did she have to keep living? why was it always her?~~ ). They always drew blood and they frequently broke bones, inside and outside of their bodies. Yet even still, whenever Harrow thwarted one of Gideon’s escape plans, she was filled with relief. 

In her dreams she watched as her parents, a horrible black-ish purple ring around their throats, held her down to her bed and forced two hundred skeletons into her body. Each time they cut her open and peeled her back, escorting the skeletons inside of her as she watched, unable to scream or talk—her teeth just clattered together ( ~~that was when she really understood they had been screaming~~ ). 

Years passed like that. Her “parents” took up vow after vow until the shells that remained really could pass for living in such a state. Harrow had kept up the charade, and the other Houses seemed none the wiser that Harrow had been acting as the Reverend Father, Mother, and Daughter for a large portion of her life. She and Gideon became stronger—she necromantically and Gideon physically—and even more hostile towards each other. Gideon continued trying to escape, her efforts became more spaced out, more complex and planned, but Harrow stopped her each and every time ( ~~she would sooner die than be left again~~ ). 

The Ninth continued its slow demise, nun after nun passing away ( ~~it was necessary, Harrowhark, you are the only way the Ninth House survives~~ ). They had been cut off from pilgrims for years, so they didn’t have anyone from any of the other Houses converting. It seemed like there was nothing else for Harrow to do except stave of the death of her people and her House for as long as possible. It seemed like that, at least, until the Reverend Father and Mother received a letter from the Emperor, summoning all of the House heirs and their Cavaliers for the possibility to become Lyctors at his side.

* * *

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was never going to bring Ortus with her, and she vividly remembered the planning that went into it all. Really Harrow was doing him a favor, Ortus was never really a fighter—much more content to write and recite the Noniad which he had been working on for at least as long as Harrow could remember. Harrow refused to meet the other houses and be seen as weak ( ~~Harrow refused to be without Gideon~~ ). Harrow was smart, and she knew that her best bet in becoming a Lyctor was to have Gideon by her side no matter how much she may dislike the fact. 

She had caught wind of Gideon’s latest escape attempt to the cohort the week before, and Harrow could feel all her plans align. The night before she went to Gideon’s planned extraction point with piles of bones and started digging. She clawed at the dirt, blood dripping from scratches on her knuckles and her nails, and she buried enough bone fragments around the space for her to raise a small army. It took her hours, but it was worth it. She needed this for her plan to work. 

The following morning it was easy enough to goad Gideon into a fight; she never refused the chance to fight Harrow, especially when she thought she might win. It took a little bit of coaxing, Gideon was dead set this time, and some harsh words ( ~~remembering Gideon was all Harrow could do~~ ), but then Harrow promised her commission—her freedom from the Ninth ( ~~freedom from her~~ )—and she was drawing her sword. Harrow took some pleasure in watching the realization dawn on Gideon’s face as she stripped off her gloves, revealing her bloodied and dirty hands, and before Gideon could even get into a defensive position a small army of skeletons was on her. They buried her under their bones and every one Gideon destroyed, Harrow simply replaced. Soon enough Gideon was disarmed, and the skeletons had her pinned, so very reminiscent of their fights when they were children. 

Harrow walked over and stepped on Gideon’s cheek, forcing her face into the dirt ( ~~it was an apology~~ ). With that it was done, and Gideon was carried to the muster behind her. 

Harrow had already set her parents up in the sanctuary before coming to collect Gideon, so she only had to walk in and join their side. Harrow led everyone through prayer, the knuckle bones echoing in the space, before getting on to the announcement of the letter. As expected, Sister Glaurica vehemently refused Ortus’ participation and Ortus was content enough to go along with the objections if it allowed him more time to write. Sister Glaurica stormed out of the hall and Ortus trudged along after, Harrow watched, knowing that Crux was to usher them onto the shuttle Gideon had summoned for a day’s joy ride. 

The muster soon ended and Harrow broke the news to Gideon that Glaurica and Ortus had taken the shuttle off of the Ninth ( ~~we do not know what she is capable of, Harrowhark; she cannot leave~~ ). Gideon ran out of the sanctuary toward her extraction point and Harrow followed calmly behind her. By the time Harrow had made it there with her strolling pace, Gideon was kneeling in the dirt. Harrow walked up behind her—this had been a necessary means to an end to ensure Gideon would be her Cavalier. She commended Gideon for her efforts, before she decided to take it all away from her.

“Why?” Gideon mumbled

“Because I completely fucking hate you ( ~~because I cannot continue to exist without you~~ ),” said Harrow, “no offense.”

Harrow left Gideon there; she had to prepare—they both did, whether Gideon had accepted that yet or not. 

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was never supposed to leave the Ninth, but she vividly remembered the day that she did. She was the Reverend Daughter ( ~~and Father and Mother and the entire future generation~~ ) tradition said her place was on the Ninth, guarding the Locked Tomb. Her parents had drilled tradition into her brain her entire life ( ~~we owe it to those who came before us to uphold these acts, Harrowhark~~ ); she always wore the correct paint, the correct skull for the occasion, said the correct prayers, but Harrow had already broken the greatest tradition of the Ninth House ( ~~I~~ ~~pray the tomb is shut forever~~ ). Harrow’s house had killed itself to uphold its own tradition, and she knew the only way to save it was to break this one. 

As she and Gideon said their goodbyes and entered the shuttle, Harrow looked back at the Ninth once again, all of the remaining people rattling their knuckle bones in prayer, crying, and waving goodbye. Harrow flicked her eyes across every single face; her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on her mother’s face then her father’s, the purple of their skin once again seeping through their white paint, their mouths stuck in the half smiles they wore right before their deaths, and as her eyes continued they found two hundred more skeletons weaving their way through the crowd, crawling after her ( ~~she was never worth them~~ ). Harrow didn’t realize she was crying until she felt some of her tears hit her hand. She dabbed lightly at her eyes so as to not disturb her paint when Gideon leaned into her to offer her hanky. 

“I want to watch you die.”

“Maybe, Nonagesimus,” Gideon smirked, “maybe. But you sure as hell won’t do it here.” ( ~~Harrow never wanted Gideon to be right about that~~ )

Harrow sat after investigating the autopilot and pulled out her knuckle bones. She clacked them together in the very familiar pattern of her mind as Gideon sat next to her. They didn’t speak—Harrow was too busy coming up with various plans, trying not to think of what she left behind, while Gideon was thinking about what she would do when she joined the Cohort. As they finally approached the First, Harrow tied black voile around her eyes—she knew the planet would be far too bright, and the fabric was thin enough to still see through.

Harrow was nervous as they waited outside the atmosphere, but she funneled those nerves into concentration—she knew the trials would start as soon as the shuttles landed, and she would be ready for them. She had to be ( ~~you were born to be a necromancer; the culmination of the best and brightest of our House~~ ). Gideon was excited to see a new planet, and one so much warmer than the Ninth, but Harrow couldn’t afford excitement. Excitement blinded the truth. Harrow pulled her hood up and told Gideon to put on a veil. Gideon refused and called Harrow her “sweet”, but before Harrow could even process the pet name the shuttle brightened immensely, and Harrow instinctively rushed up and slammed the shutter of the shuttle shut. 

Harrow told Gideon to pull up her hood, but she yet again refused and pulled out the most ridiculous looking sunglasses Harrow had ever seen ( ~~she liked them~~ ). The shuttle doors opened and saved Gideon from Harrow jumping her to wretch the sunglasses off of her face. Harrow steeled her composure ( ~~never allow others to be aware of your true thoughts, Harrowhark~~ ) and stepped out onto the platform, her eyes scanned their surroundings before coming to rest on an old man approaching them. 

Harrow greeted him as she practiced and delicately maneuvered around Gideon’s presence—Ortus _had_ abdicated…in a way ( ~~my lady, the shuttle carrying Sister Glaurica and Ortus exploded en route~~ ). Teacher accepted that explanation without question and didn’t mind when Gideon spoke out of turn, though she did make a point that Harrow had also noticed. There were only six shuttles. Harrow couldn’t comprehend showing up late to the summons of the Emperor. As soon as she started to question such thing, the other shuttles landed. 

The Third shuttle opened, and Harrow watched as three individuals walked out; one rather annoying looking man and two very tall women, one much more vibrant than the other. Harrow immediately didn’t trust the Third—not that she trusted anyone here—but she didn’t like the vague smirk on the paler twin’s face. Twins were never a good sign. Harrow’s eyes only strayed from the pale woman when she felt Gideon sprint away from her. Harrow watched as Gideon ran toward the Seventh shuttle, scooping a woman into her arms.

Harrow hurried over as fast as she would allow herself in such a circumstance. Harrow watched as a giant of a man raised a sword at the back of Gideon’s neck; that pressure she hadn’t felt in so long returned to her chest. She heard talking and eventually the giant lowered his sword. Harrow reached the group moments later, immediately wrapping her hand around the back of Gideon’s neck ( ~~she was searching for any trace of injury~~ ). Harrow issued a calm and subtle threat, and as apologies and conversation happened around her she eyed the giant man next to her. Something was very off with the Seventh’s Cavalier ( ~~her parents’ bodies jerked back to life, standing for the first time in weeks as she finished the theorem~~ ). Harrow lightened her grip on Gideon’s neck—they couldn’t further cause a scene, issued another warning, and walked back to their shuttle. Harrow already had a list of people she knew to keep an eye on, and she knew it would only grow from there. 

Harrow spent the debriefing of events—after reciting the prayer—standing with her tea, placed in a way so that the smell of it wasn’t overbearing to her nostrils, listening, and watching all of the other necromancers and cavaliers in the room. She gripped her knuckle bones tightly and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinding her teeth together. By the time Teacher had finished talking and handing out the keys, Harrow knew the first steps of what she had to do. Skeletons—incredibly crafted, Harrow noticed—led them to their rooms. She educated Gideon to the concept of nighttime and walked into the bedroom. There was a bed, one much larger than she had ever seen with a cot laying perpendicular at the foot of it. Harrow had never slept that close to another person—but before she could get caught up thinking about that fact, Gideon bundled up the blankets and headed back into the main room. That was probably for the best, so she could work more efficiently.

Harrow waited until she could hear Gideon’s soft snores from the other room before grabbing paper and setting out into Canaan House to map the doors. Mapping every door took her the better part of four hours, and there were several locked ones of interest that she wanted to return to ( ~~always be sure to do your research~~ ). She returned to their chambers quietly, relieved, and unsurprised to find Gideon still asleep. She crept over and gingerly searched for the key ring, taking it from Gideon once she did. Then, Harrow set upon leaving notes for Gideon all around the room; she didn’t have time to waste to make sure Gideon followed her every request, but she still had the means to leave those requests. 

With that she took back to the halls and tracked down Teacher, asking his permission to enter the hatch in the library. He seemed delighted at the question and allowed her permission. With that, Harrow could truly begin her research. 

Harrow holed herself up in the library for the first day, trying to gain more information from some of the tomes about what might await her down the hatch. The tomes she could find didn’t really give much away, so on the second day she opened the hatch and ventured down into it. She explored the halls below, examining the different laboratories and rooms, each with their own puzzle she had surmised. She only went back to their room when sleep or food was absolutely necessary, and she knew there was a good chance of Gideon being asleep.

She continued her research the next day, trying to figure out some of the puzzles, but when she returned to their rooms in the early morning Gideon had stirred. Harrow paused for a moment and looked at Gideon, despite the circumstances she seemed—peaceful ( ~~she was asleep with all the other children; the gas should have killed her~~ ). Harrow went into the bedroom and fell asleep. She made sure to be up and out of the room before Gideon rose, but not before using bone chips to create decorations for the rooms and hall so that it could feel more like home. 

The following days, Harrow had settled on trying to figure out Laboratory #2; it seemed easy enough. She just had to stay in one room and send a construct through the other, but whatever it was that existed in that other room killed every construct she threw at it. She kept trying until blood sweat coated her face, and she finally took a break—she needed to go stock up on food so that she wouldn’t get distracted by hunger in the future ( ~~she couldn’t afford any distractions~~ ). 

On her way to the kitchens, she heard a group cheering and laughing. Intrigued, and wanting to know what the other houses were up to she stood in the doorway of the room. She saw Gideon, standing in the pit across from the Third House Cavalier amongst the others. She heard one of the Third necromancers—the one who seemed to be less of a threat—call out, “To the touch, call!”

Harrow had to hold back a scoff—fighting to the touch? That was simply inviting death in the future. Naberius the Third called out his name and the Third princess called out Gideon’s. Harrow clenched her fist, though it seemed Gideon was actually keeping her vow of silence. The match started and Harrow watched with rapt attention. Of course, she and Gideon had fought hundreds of times before, but she was in those fights up close and personal; it was something else to see her fighting from afar ( ~~we have no idea what she is capable of~~ ). Where Naberius was clinical and precise, Gideon was wild and powerful. She threw herself into each strike, and Harrow knew if she had had that awful two-hander she loved so much, the fight would have been hers. 

However, with the rapier the Third Cavalier eventually disarmed Gideon, and Harrow could see what was about to come next with Gideon’s posture. She shot forward, punching Naberius in the chest as she swept his legs from under him. Gideon grabbed her sword and held it to Naberius throat in a pose that was very familiar to both her and Harrow. The match was called to the Third and all the others started talking over and to each other. Harrow knew that had that fight been to the death, Gideon would have won and that was all that mattered. She stared at Gideon as she thought about the match until Gideon met her eyes, even through the sunglasses she knew. She held her gaze for a moment before she turned to continue toward the kitchens ( ~~she was proud~~ ).

Her attempts proved no more fruitful after her expedition to the kitchen to fill her pocked with pieces of bread, and it continued as such as the week went on. She went back to the rooms sparingly, and usually avoided running into the Sixth as she entered and left, which made her feel even more desperate to figure everything out. Once when she returned to the rooms to get a few hours asleep, she found a note on her pillow from Gideon. 

_WHAT’S WITH THE SKULLS?_

It almost made her lips twitch up into a smile. She quickly responded, _Ambiance_ , and left the note next to her as she slept. 

She woke with determination—she would not stop until she figured out the puzzle to this room. She made her way back to Lab #2 and took up the now familiar position in the Imaging room and created another skeleton to enter the Response room. It was destroyed in moments. She tried again. And again. Over and over until the blood sweat became sticky on her skin, but she kept going. At one point, Harrow swayed on her feet, nearly falling over, but she threw up one of her bloody hands to catch herself on the glass ( ~~you must always push yourself, Harrowhark~~ ). She created another skeleton and sent it in to be destroyed. 

Whenever she felt too close to the edge she would pause, huddle in the corner and take a short nap—they were never very restful, too wary of all the dangers around her. After, she was on her feet again, trying everything she could to defeat or get past whatever was in the other room. She sweat through her clothes time and time again as she raised skeleton after skeleton. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed but that didn’t matter; she couldn’t stop until she finished this ( ~~you cannot be the best if you let yourself give into weakness~~ ). 

Building the skeletons had started becoming more difficult; it took her longer between each one. Her breathing became heavier and her vision started spotting, but she could do it, just one more before she rested. It was number one hundred and sixty-three that did her in ( ~~she wondered what would have happened if she made it to two hundred~~ ); after forming the skeleton it immediately collapsed as she vomited blood. Harrow knew she was going to pass out, could feel it coming, but she didn’t want to pass out in the Laboratory near God only knows what and vulnerable to attacks from her fellow heirs. 

She stumbled out of the Lab, hugging the wall and headed toward the most unassuming sounding room—Sanitiser. She threw up once more on the walk there, but otherwise made it unscathed.

She collapsed to the ground, and with her last bits of consciousness formed a protective bone cocoon around herself.

The next time she came to consciousness she was hanging upside down from a shoulder, and as she breathed in, she knew it was Gideon. Next, she focused in on sounds—she heard voices, two that sounded like the Sixth and one that was definitely Gideon as she could feel the vibrations of Gideon’s speech against her. Everything was still a little fuzzy, but she still heard when Palamedes Sextus proclaimed himself the greatest necromancer of his generation—Harrow simply couldn’t stand for that. 

“Like hell you are.” She mumbled ( ~~who could be better than a necromancer made up of their generation~~ ). After that, Harrow’s half-asleep brain let her seep into the warmth of Gideon and enjoy it as she swayed gently back and forth ( ~~their bodies swayed gently from the ropes~~ ). Eventually Gideon deposited her on the bed in their rooms and Harrow laid prone in half-consciousness. She felt Gideon poking and prodding, looking for injuries, but it took awhile for Harrow’s brain to come back online and tell her that that was too intimate. 

Harrow threatened Gideon without the usual gusto—too tired—and Gideon mocked her back as usual. She almost seemed concerned about Harrow, but that didn’t make sense. Arguing came easy to them, it always had, and was the way through which the communicated most information, so Harrow fell back on that. She wasn’t anticipating Gideon providing her with useful information about another door location that she quickly added to her map. She was expecting Gideon to insist on tagging along, despite that being the last thing Harrow wanted ( ~~she had to keep her safe~~ ). Harrow knew that this was a subject Gideon wouldn’t stop pushing and would just follow her back to, even if she stole back the key, so she agreed to let Gideon accompany her. It was also to get Gideon to stop calling her those ridiculous nicknames, because she was starting to like the sound of them ( ~~anything to not be the Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus~~ ). 

Harrow planned to use Gideon to watch as her constructs fought whatever it was that stayed behind that door so that she could gain a better perspective on how to defeat it; she should have known that Gideon would not do as expected of her ( ~~she never did~~ ). Harrow was not expecting the flood of pain that filled her as Gideon entered the room and her mind became flooded with Gideon’s thoughts—her vision flickered back and forth from the Imaging room to what Gideon was seeing. Overwhelmed, she slammed her eyes shut, trying to concentrate, trying to sort through the chaos ( ~~it reminded her too much of rattling, too much of screaming~~ ). She could hear Gideon trying to talk to her, but it sounded miles away drowned out by her thoughts in battle. 

“Stop thinking!...I can’t—it’s too—damn it!” Harrow could only see flashes. A sharp bony arm. The powerful slash of a sword. A well-placed punch. She could do this. She had to do this ( ~~you must concentrate, my lady~~ ). “Nav. Close one eye.” Thankfully, Gideon listened and everything became more muted—she could see through Gideon’s eye, but it was blurry. Everything became too much again as the situation dawned on Harrow; Gideon and the trials for Lyctorhood were innately connected ( ~~she hadn’t yet realized how connected~~ ). She staggered back, releasing the button and leaving the room to fetch Gideon. Her head and body ached from the intensity of Gideon’s spirit—she could barely get through a conversation before passing out. 

That day was filled of things subverting Harrow’s expectations; the invitation to dinner was just another on the list. Harrow relented under Gideon’s begging, but she remained nervous. Yes, she had been to many formal Ninth functions, but those functions all had traditions—rules ( ~~you mustn’t speak unless spoken to, Harrowhark~~ ). An anniversary party was uncharted territory, and she didn’t like uncharted territory. 

She spent most of the event keeping up an appearance of ambivalence as she sorted through what was necessary to pass the trial in the Lab. She dragged Gideon from the party at the first possible convenience. 

It was breathtaking and exhilarating to see through Gideon’s eyes, to feel her body move with each strike against the construct. She was incredible. Harrow didn’t quite understand what it was Gideon had been able to see in the construct, but she decided not to dwell on that fact—they had a key. 

She hadn’t seen the deaths of the Fifth coming—the last on the list for that day, seeing them crumpled up at the base of the ladder. It was a shame. Abigail Pent was an incredible necromancer and researcher—it was what made her such a threat—and Harrow hated wasted potential. Things became…convoluted from there. The implication that someone or something was trying to prevent them all from figuring out these theorems was not lost in the grief of the moment for Harrow like it was for so many of the others. It was now an even more dire race against time ( ~~we didn’t have anymore time, we needed to secure a necromantic heir. we knew the cost~~ ).

Entering the study and finding the completed theorem for the experiment was an important step forward, but it also solidified her thoughts that she would need Gideon for everything going forward ( ~~she had always needed Gideon~~ ). It was better, anyway, for them to remain close as the dangers had increased tenfold ( ~~she couldn’t lose her~~ ).

* * *

The minute that it took Harrow to walk to grab the next key and back while siphoning Gideon’s soul was one of the worst minutes of her life ( ~~one more soul to add to the Tomb~~ ). The pressure surrounding her could tear her apart at a moment’s notice and it felt like a million needles repeatedly stabbing into her, but the only thing Harrow could focus on was Gideon’s horrible screams—rattling replaced by the gut-wrenching sounds tearing themselves from Gideon’s throat. Harrow was nearly back to the small group when she saw Gideon slump limply against Dulcinea Septimus, silent ( ~~she was never supposed to live, Harrowhark~~ ). “Gideon?... _Gideon_ !” Harrow crossed back through the barrier and fell to her knees next to Gideon—for once not even giving thought to decency ( ~~the last surviving child of the Ninth House~~ ).

“Ha-ha…first time you didn’t call me Griddle” Gideon murmured before promptly passing out. Harrow couldn’t help the relief that filled her. She immediately grabbed Gideon’s discarded cloak and wrapped it around her trembling form—not wanting to appear any more vulnerable in front of the Seventh House, though she was almost certain the Cavalier had been dead for some time. There was something off about Dulcinea too that Harrow didn’t like, but she couldn’t yet place what it was. 

Gideon woke up again not too long after she had passed out and Harrow had to sit and watch as a—presumed—walking corpse and a woman she didn’t trust kept fussing and touching Gideon after she repeatedly warned her not to. Finally she had had enough and walked over to Gideon, lifting her arm up around her and tugging her nearly dead weight to a stand ( ~~her parents bodies, hanging, swaying~~ ). It took all her effort not to collapse as she practically carried Gideon up the stairs and out of the room. There was a bit of relief as Gideon leaned against the wall, taking her own weight—Harrow was exhausted too—but Harrow stayed close, guiding and making sure she could catch Gideon if necessary. She had years of puppeting her dead parents’ corpses under her belt, so guiding a still alive Gideon back to their rooms was a small task even with their combined exhaustion. 

Harrow led Gideon to the bed, keeping a careful eye on her. She was alive. She was alive ( ~~she had survived Harrow twice~~ ), but she nearly wasn’t. Harrow could never risk Gideon in such a way again ( ~~she wouldn’t survive it~~ ). After Gideon fell asleep, Harrow changed into a new set of clothes tossing aside Gideon’s overcloak, and immediately went to fill in Sextus who had a few choice words for her before agreeing to check on Gideon when she woke up. Harrow left several notes for Gideon with instructions for when she woke up, grabbed the key, and headed off to find the study.

This study was similar to the last, with the theorem for the experiment found within, but Harrow spent hours searching through everything that she could within the room. Before Harrow had realized, it was well into night, and she left the study as quietly as she could. The halls on the walk back were empty, not even a skeleton in sight as she slipped the promised key under the Seventh’s door, until Harrow stumbled upon the body of the Seventh House Cavalier. Really it was a split second decision—a chance to confirm her suspicions ( ~~always be absolutely certain in your convictions~~ )—that led her to feel the necromantic threads that held the Cavalier’s body together and take off his head with the slightest of pushes. She heard footsteps in the distance, so she quickly grabbed the head and stuffed it in her robes as she walked back to their rooms. 

Thankfully, Gideon was asleep when she entered. She hurried into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She opened the wardrobe and removed Protesilaus’ head from under her robes. She stared at the head a moment ( ~~swollen, purple showing through cracks of white~~ ) then placed it in the corner of the wardrobe in a small box. She threw a couple cloaks and a pair of shoes over top of it, closed the wardrobe door, and threw her dirty clothes in a pile in front of it in an effort to deter a possible snooping Gideon. When she finished, she clenched her fists tightly, only just realizing that her hands were shaking and her teeth chattering. 

She threw herself onto the bed. Her mind filled with the sounds of struggling skeletons, dying in agony. She held a pillow against her head to try to muffle what was inside. It was a sleepless night that led Gideon to wake up before her; she curled further into herself and the bed under the covers when Gideon attempted to wake her up and confront her. She knew the day was going to be a long one, so she wanted all the sleep she could get. 

She didn’t get much. Everyone was roused and gathered about the discovery of cremains and Harrow schooled her face to remain passive. As she observed everyone, she knew some people knew more than they let on ( ~~be aware of what you’re up against, Harrowhark~~ ). The one twin from the Third was especially concerning—she was conniving. Tensions rose quite quickly, and soon enough there was a duel between the Second and the Sixth. Harrow figured it to be a one-sided fight, but one glance at Gideon and she knew they were about to witness something interesting.

The fight was a spectacle, a hurricane of traded blows with the Sixth coming out on top, but if anything, the fight simply increased the tension in the room. Then the Third was challenging the Sixth again—she knew they couldn’t be trusted—and Gideon was giving her such a pleading look that she couldn’t help the words she spoke. “The Ninth House will represent the Sixth House.” Through that proclamation and the Fourth adding on their support as well, the tension diffused momentarily.

When Palamedes suggested Gideon go with him and Cam to find the dead Cavalier the rattling in Harrow’s head grew louder like warning bells. Harrow didn’t trust Palamedes Sextus, nor did she trust Gideon with Dulcinea. She quickly turned the conversation around on itself and Palamedes had agreed to stay with Dulcinea. This was the best way Harrow could think of to keep Gideon safe at the moment. She would deal with the Sixth and Seventh if need be. If it was necessary, she would do it. 

She went over to give Gideon her key ring and to further warn her of the dangers there might be, when Gideon wrapped her arms around Harrow and picked her up. It took a moment for Harrow to comprehend what was happening—she had never been hugged before. The closest she had even been to a hug was when Gideon carried her over her shoulder, or when she was dragging Gideon back to their rooms; both cases in which one of them was only half-conscious at best. She expected the warmth, but she didn’t expect it to seep into her until she could feel it in her bones ( ~~it was an apology. it was goodbye~~ ). Gideon set her down and sense came back to Harrow, as did the cold. She hurried after Palamedes, unable to handle anymore of whatever that moment was.

Harrow had been wrong. Neither the Sixth or Seventh had made a move and now the Fourth was dead ( ~~two more children joined the rank in her mind~~ ). Gideon was shaken by the experience ( ~~she had almost lost her~~ ). She could barely sleep and was riddled by nightmares that Harrow could hear her wake from. It was a particularly bad night, where Gideon had been tossing and turning—thrashing, really—that Harrow crept out of her room, blankets wrapped around her, and sat next to Gideon’s pile of blankets on the floor. She was intimately aware of nightmares of guilt ( ~~gas, filling up the room, the nerve gas stopping their screams in their throats~~ ), so she did what she could to help. “Wake up, Griddle.” She said gently, and Gideon startled out of her nightmare, staring up at her. “It’s just me. Go back to sleep.” Gideon lowered her head again without a fight. Harrow waited for a few more minute, watching just in case, before she stood and crept back into her room.

* * *

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was never supposed to tell Gideon anything, but she vividly remembered the moment she realized she would have to. They had had a huge fight about Septimus and the next time she had seen Gideon was in the Sixth’s rooms cuffed to Camilla as she had asked before they entered. Gideon had obviously found Protesilaus’ head and gone to the Sixth ( ~~Gideon would never trust her~~ ). They absolutely had to be on the same page going forward—they couldn’t afford any more of these slip ups, so Harrow had decided during their gathering in Septimus’ room as she told her story that didn’t _quite_ make complete sense that she would tell Gideon everything. 

She could tell Gideon wanted to talk, so she stopped her before she started. “Follow me…please.” She threw the last word in knowing it might be enough to throw Gideon off balance enough to comply. She did. Harrow led Gideon to the training rooms; the only place with a salt-water pool in all of Canaan House ( ~~if ever you must tell someone an important secret, it must be done submerged in salt-water, Harrowhark~~ ). She tossed out bones and formed skeletons to guard the door and surround the pool. She told Gideon to get in the pool and the other girl barely hesitated before jumping in with a big splash as Harrow looked on. Harrow took a moment and then stepped off the edge, submerging herself ( ~~dark, cold water filling up her lungs as she choked for air~~ ). She came up gasping for air, in a very mild panic until her toes touched the floor, keeping her steady.

And then Harrow told her everything as they floated beside each other. She told her about Protesilaus. She told her about her misguided attempt to protect her from the Sixth and Seventh which cost the Fourth their lives. For some reason, once again in these waters she felt compelled to give everything away, and in the process gave away herself. She told Gideon about her—about how she came to be—about two hundred dead children ( ~~gasping, writhing, silently screaming~~ ) that her parents deemed necessary to sacrifice. She revealed how truly grotesque she was. She told Gideon that she was meant to die too ( ~~she was exposed for ten entire minutes; it was statistically impossible for her to have survived~~ ) and the fear that filled her parents when she hadn’t. And then all it took was Gideon asking a single question: “And do you think you’re worth it?” for her to lay herself bare ( ~~that goal must be worth the sacrifice. it must be worth it~~ ).

The lost children of the Ninth rattled in her head and she allowed the familiar rhythmic sound to fill her as she answered. “If I became a Lyctor and renewed my house—and made it great again, and greater than it ever was, and justified its existence in the eyes of God the Emperor—if I made my whole life a monument to those who died to ensure that I would live and live powerfully…of course I wouldn’t be _worth it_ .” ( ~~her parents hung from the ceiling, swaying with their sacrifice~~ ) A lifetime of feeling bubbled over inside of her. “I am an abomination. The whole universe ought to scream whenever my feet touch the ground. My parents committed a necromantic sin that we ought to have been torpedoed into the centre of Dominicus for. If any other Houses knew of what we’d done they would destroy us from orbit without a second’s thought. I am a _war crime_ .” ( ~~two hundred skeletons silently screamed in agreement~~ )

And then she told Gideon she’d do it all again; she’d suffer it and have all those inside her join her once again just for the chance to see The Body awaken—told her of her plans that day if she deemed the Tomb unworthy. She didn’t expect Gideon’s guilt. Of course she blamed Gideon; it was easier than blaming herself—easier than blaming her parents who had chosen to leave her with such kind smiles and so many ghosts. It was easier than accepting she had done absolutely nothing to stop it. She just watched, and didn’t even use the noose her parents so gingerly helped her tie ( ~~this knot is fairly simple, Harrowhark, see?~~ ). 

“You’re not the only one who couldn’t die.” ( ~~a baby sound asleep amongst bodies, gas filling up the room~~ ) Harrow knew they had more in common than they liked to admit. And then, Gideon apologized. 

“Harrow—Harrow, I’m so bloody sorry.” Harrow felt her chest tighten. Lungs filled with water from so long ago as her eyes shot open. She waded through the water until she could latch onto Gideon’s shirt with her fists, twisting them as she shook Gideon as hard as she could ( ~~it was an apology~~ ). 

“ _You_ apologize to _me_ ? You apologize to me now? You say that you’re sorry when I have spent my life destroying you? You are my whipping girl! I hurt you because it was a relief! I exist because my parents killed everyone and relegated you to a life of abject misery, and they would have killed you too and not given it a second’s goddamn thought! I spent your life trying to make you regret you weren’t dead, all because—I regretted I wasn’t! I ate you alive, and you have the temerity to tell me that _you’re sorry_ ?” Harrow’s chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, tried to steady the gasping that her lungs seemed to necessitate ( ~~lungs filled with gas~~ ). That was the last straw.

“I have tried to dismantle you, Gideon Nav! The Ninth House poisoned you, we trod you under foot—I took you to this killing field as my slave—you refuse to die, and you pity me!” Harrow couldn’t help the astonished bark of a laugh that forced itself from her throat. “Strike me down. You’ve won…I’ve lived my whole wretched life at your mercy, yours alone, and God knows I deserve to die by your hand. You are my only friend. I am undone without you.” She seemed to deflate once she finished, the pressure lifting from her lungs as seventeen years of weight left her. Gideon now knew everything, and Harrow would accept whatever she decided to do ( ~~even if that meant her leaving~~ ). 

Suddenly, Gideon’s arms were around her and they plunged into the water; she didn’t struggle, fully accepting her death, but then Gideon tightened her arms again. This wasn’t a drowning. This was another hug. Harrow knew she didn’t deserve such a thing, especially not at this moment after revealing such weakness so she struggled and clawed, trying to break free. Gideon held tight and it wasn’t until Harrow felt the familiar sensation of salt water in her lungs that she stopped struggling ( ~~her parents bodies slowed to a stop~~ ). Gideon dragged them to one of the corners of the pool and propped Harrow up against her, Harrow’s head cushioned on Gideon’s shoulder—like their fight from so long ago. 

Harrow couldn’t tell how much time had passed before she felt Gideon’s hand grip the back of her head by her hair, pulling her back far enough that they could look at each other. Harrow watched as Gideon looked over her face, scrutinizing and taking stock before she leaned forward and kissed Harrow right between her brows where her sinuses began. The noise that left Harrow surprised her as it was one she had never made before—somewhere between a wheeze and a whine. And then they promised each other: “One Flesh, One End.”

She made Gideon promise to live if she died in order to guard the Tomb as Gideon’s hand rested on her jaw line ( ~~it was an apology. it was goodbye~~ ). And so, Harrow told Gideon of the Tomb—of the Body, and for the briefest moments Harrow swore she could see the Body in the reflection of Gideon’s golden irises. When they pushed out of the pool Gideon grabbed her hand; the warmth of it calming, settling. Of course, she had to ruin it by being crude, so Harrow had a skeleton kick her back into the water. 

That night Gideon moved all her bedding back onto the cot at the foot of Harrow’s bed and she couldn’t help the relief that filled her as Gideon laid down ( ~~she wasn’t going to leave her alone~~ ). After she reassured Gideon that she hadn’t tried to kill her in the shuttle, that Crux had taken punishing disloyalty into his own hands, they settled into bed. Gideon fell asleep quickly and heavily. Harrow wasn’t used to sleeping with another person so close—she could hear Gideon’s every breath. Eventually she fell asleep as she tried not to pay attention to the breathing of two hundred lost children fill the room.

* * *

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was never supposed to have to watch Gideon Nav die, but she vividly remembered the moment Gideon impaled herself on top the iron spikes.

That last day had been a whirlwind—first breaking into hidden door study, then the fire alarm, finding the injured Second necromancer and finding Teacher and the Second Cavalier dead, Ianthe’s rise to Lyctorhood with the death of Naberius, quickly followed by the deaths of the Eighth, but that was all child’s play compared to what followed. Harrow had never trusted Dulcinea, but she never expected her to have been a Lyctor the entire time. Even Palamedes blowing himself up in her presence did little to stop the revealed Cytherea the First.

The construct she raised was a horrifying marvel that Harrow couldn’t help but admire as they fought it. Her memories of that fight were patchy since she passed in and out of consciousness throughout it, but nothing was worse about that day than the end of it. Harrow knew the bone cocoon would only buy them a little time, but she hoped it would be enough for Camilla and Gideon to escape. That had been her plan—that had been _the_ plan. She owed everything and more to Gideon; she could do this one thing to ensure her safety ( ~~the goal must be worth the sacrifice~~ ). She wouldn’t risk Gideon again. She felt blood pouring from her nose, seeping from her skin, dripping out of her ears as she felt herself and the cocoon weakening against Cytherea’s attacks. Harrow knew there wasn’t much time left. 

She reached up from where she had fallen against Gideon and tapped her cheek ( ~~it was an apology. it was goodbye~~ ). “Nav, have you really forgiven me?” Harrow watched a complicated look flash across Gideon’s face that settled into determination.

“Of course I have, you bozo.”

“I don’t deserve it.” ( ~~two hundred skeletons grabbed for her limp body~~ ) Gideon forgave her anyway. Gideon forgave her—an abomination, a war crime, a tomb—and cared about her. Gideon didn’t think she could do this without Harrow ( ~~Harrow could never do this without Gideon~~ ), when without Harrow Gideon had shone—Harrow saw the duels, saw Gideon with the other adepts and cavaliers. Cytherea attacked the bone shield yet again and cracks formed, tiny streams of sunlight filtered through the darkness, illuminating Gideon’s golden eyes and her hair. Harrow laughed. 

“Gideon the Ninth, first flower of my House—you are the greatest cavalier we have ever produced. You are our triumph. The best of all of us. It has been my privilege to be your necromancer.” If this was the reason Harrow died, it would be worth it. 

Gideon stood suddenly, slightly dislodging Harrow and nearly whacking her head on the bone above her, declaring with conviction that she’d get them out of the situation. Harrow watched as Gideon paced back and forth, glancing down at her hurt leg in slight concern. Gideon took off her coat, threw off her gloves, and rolled up her sleeves—fidgeting as she paced. Harrow didn’t see it coming at the time, was too preoccupied with trying to keep the barrier up, but really she should have ( ~~she was never supposed to live, Harrowhark~~ ).

By the time she became suspicious it was already too late. “Nav, what are you doing?”

“The cruelest thing anyone has ever done to you in your whole life, believe me. You’ll know what to do, and if you don’t do it, what I’m about to do will be no use to anyone.” Harrow watched as Gideon turned and faced the iron spikes, realization dawning on her. She reached out to grab at Gideon’s ankle, calf—anything—but it was too late. “For the Ninth!” ( ~~always. Always for the Ninth~~ ) 

Gideon impaled herself. 

( ~~two hundred children writhing in agony~~ )

( ~~her parents stepping off their chairs, ropes snapping taut~~ )

( ~~Gideon forcing iron spikes through her chest~~ )

Just like that, Harrow was the last child of the Ninth.

Harrow didn’t know she was screaming until Gideon told her to stop, her voice clear, right next to her ear. She followed Gideon’s directions—it was all she could do. Gideon yelled at her when she looked at her body ( ~~you are the only child left of an entire generation~~ ). She couldn’t lift Gideon’s sword and then—they were cheek to cheek. Harrow reveled in the feeling and looked deep into her golden eyes. “I cannot do this.”

“You already did it. It’s done. You ate me and rebuilt me. We can’t go home again.” Harrow was drowning. She was drowning in the souls of her generation. 

“I can’t bear it.” Harrow could almost feel Gideon’s grip tighten on top of hers. 

“Suck it down. You’re already two hundred dead daughters and sons of our House. What’s one more?”

( ~~everything. it was everything~~ ) Harrow’s tears mixed with the blood and paint streaming down her face. “I cannot conceive of a universe without you in it.”

The actual fight had become inconsequential to Harrow; she let Gideon take the lead until she felt her presence lightening. Gideon’s sword in her hand, blade pressed to Cytherea’s heart, Harrow allowed herself for the first time in her life, to plead—“Don’t leave me.”

It wasn’t enough. Harrow drove the sword through Cytherea’s heart. It wasn’t enough. She dropped the sword, running back to Gideon’s body, tugging on her arm until she came—bit by bit—off of the spikes. It wasn’t enough. She sat for a long time staring at Gideon’s face, the ghost of a smile ( ~~her parents smile at her as they step off their chairs~~ ). It wasn’t enough. She begged God himself to bring Gideon back. It wasn’t enough. She agreed to become one of his Lyctors. It wasn’t enough. None of it was enough.

* * *

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was never supposed to remember Gideon Nav, but she vividly remembered when she put it all—put herself—back together. She had tried everything not to remember Gideon to preserve her soul; she indebted herself to Ianthe Tridentarius, she gave herself a lobotomy, she rewrote history ( ~~be absolutely certain in your convictions~~ ). Harrow spent nearly a year as a Lyctor—half a Lyctor—with God, with Ianthe, with the remaining original Lyctors, with ghosts, and she wasn’t enough. But for once in her life it was on purpose—it was worth it.

She still heard the rattling, heard the struggling and gasping of a lost generation. She still saw her parents swaying gently from the rafters. She even saw the Body, back again after so long ( ~~I pray that which was buried remains buried~~ )—her only comfort.

Everything had been strange and off kilter for so long—nine months—that it didn’t even surprise her that it was a sword through her chest that started it all again, gasping out a name she had made herself forget; in a way it was poetic. And then she woke in a reality of her own making.

Over and over again Harrow woke in wrong realities just to find—“This isn’t how it happens”—no matter how she wished it was. Until she once again woke in Canaan House with Abigail Pent and Magnus Quinn and all those who had died and decided to stick around after Harrow had called them back. It was then, staring at the bare ceiling that everything came back. Agony filled her, anguish sounded from her throat as the memories threatened to suffocate her. It was as if she wasn’t in control as her body thrashed on the bed ( ~~gas filling her lungs~~ ) and spoke. 

“If I forget you, let my right hand be forgotten. Add more also, if aught but death part me and thee… _Griddle_.” And finally, after more than a year everything slid back into place—before it all came crashing down. She sobbed into the mattress, clawing at it, wishing to tear it open as she wished to tear open herself, until she couldn’t cry anymore. Then she needed answers. 

Abigail Pent informed her of everything she could—how they had come to be, how this place existed, that she was haunted—and Harrow answered all of Pent’s inquiries in return. As with the world outside, reality was also on a dire time constraint within the bubble she had created in the river. Harrow was surprised to see skeletons from the Ninth ( ~~the rattling remained even within this reality~~ ) walking the halls past them as they navigated the House hurriedly. They came upon the others that remained, including Ortus Nigenad. 

Talking to Ortus was another reminder of all that she owed to others, as he sat there, dead through her folly, and still called Harrow his Lady. And then he asked about how Gideon died and it hit her all over again ( ~~she was alone~~ ). “Murder.” ( ~~Gideon falling onto the iron spikes; her face fixed in that small smile~~ ). Harrow could accept nothing else—she had been murdered through circumstance. Ortus spoke to her in poetry, but there was no beauty to be found here, not for Harrow. 

“I think you must hate her,” he said then and Harrow understood the thought—that she might hate Gideon for dying when she was supposed to—until he said, “Don’t. If there is anything I know about young Gideon…if there was anything in here that I too understood…it is that she did everything deliberately.”

But there could have been so much more that Harrow could have done, so much that might have prevented it. She couldn’t help but be embarrassed at the scream of vulnerability that unwittingly left her, “She died because I let her! _You don’t understand!_ ” ( ~~Mortus the Ninth kicked his chair over as his body flailed~~ ).

Ortus Ninegad stood, wrapped her in his arms, and apologized. He apologized for everything: for standing by as Crux and Aiglamene pushed her, for never offering his help after everything that had happened, for not looking after her and Gideon. And as much as she wanted to struggle and yell that she needed no one’s pity, a part of her was relieved at the little bit of recognition from someone who had witnessed it all. Harrow couldn’t help herself as the words passed her lips. “Everything I did, I did for the Ninth House. Everything Gideon did, she did for the Ninth House.” ( ~~you must always think of the good of the Ninth, Harrowhark~~ ) 

Ortus was staying to help now like he never had when he was alive. Harrow reluctantly extracted herself from the comfort of his embrace—they had a ghost to exorcise. Everyone was helping set the room up, Harrow occupied herself by drawing wards at the apex of each candle. Messages appeared on the whiteboard again and Harrow told Ortus of her fears of madness. Ortus didn’t think she had ever been mad, and somehow that possibility was more terrifying to her. “Then what?”

“The mind can only take so much pressure before it forms indentations. It is strange—years and years after his death, I so often heard the sound…the way he pushed at the handle, the way he manipulated the haft…of my father, standing outside the door of my cell.”

It sounded all too familiar. “Did you miss him?”

“Sometimes I imagined him coming back to life so that I might watch him die myself. The fantasy was a relief.” ( ~~Her parents smiled at her before they stepped off their chairs, rope pulling taut, legs flailing wildly, purple filling the cracks in their white paint~~ )

The Sleeper proved even more dangerous than they had anticipated. It would have shot her as soon as it appeared had Harrow not raised a wall of bone in time. The Sleeper produced gun after gun as they shot at everyone who tried to stop them. Harrow tried to reason with the Sleeper but they seemed to hold a contempt for her that rivalled only her own. The bunch of them didn’t stand a chance; the Sleeper just kept coming. Harrow watched at all these people who had already done so much for her continued to sacrifice themselves. Harrow stood, trying to surprise the Sleeper with a clump of bone through the air that she could form into—something—but it was shot out of the air after barely leaving her hand. That was it. They were out of time, until—Ortus cleared his throat. 

He started reciting the Noniad, and when he could no longer—Harrow picked up where he left off, Abigail chanting in the background, as she did what she could to hold the Sleeper off that much longer. It was with a gun to her head that Harrow watched the form of Matthias Nonius rise, and then Harrow finally watched Ortus’ story come to life. 

The fight was magnificent; a deadly dance that each side put their all into. The room started to change around them, the lab fading to something distinctly Ninth. The struggle was brutal. Nonius’ face was little more than a bloodied pulp by the time he finally sheathed his sword in the Sleeper’s heart. The fight, though over, had destabilized the bubble enough that it was collapsing in on itself—everyone had to leave. Nonius, Ortus, Dyas, and Protesilaus left Harrow’s bubble to lend their strength to Gideon the First and help fight back the Resurrection Beast. Harrow didn’t get to say goodbye ( ~~she lifted her hand to gently tap Gideon’s cheek~~ ).

Abigail and Magnus explained her options to her: she could surrender her body entirely, enter the River, or she could re-enter her body, wake up, and consume Gideon’s soul once and for all. All she had ever truly wanted her entire life—was choice. A choice that she could make that was, for once, entirely in her control, but she never wanted it to be this choice. Harrow didn’t think she could do it; she had taken every other child of the Ninth in some manner or other, but she couldn’t do that to Gideon. She had lobotomized herself from preventing that possibility. Magnus seemed to sense this and spoke up. His words were like a punch to the gut—iron spikes to the heart. 

“...She died. She can’t come back, even if you keep her stuffed away in a drawer you can’t look at. You’re not waiting for her resurrection; you’ve made yourself her mausoleum.” But Magnus didn’t know that that’s all Harrow ever was—all she ever knew how to be. She was a mausoleum. She was a tomb. Magnus wanted her to grieve, but Harrow knew that if she started grieving she would never be able to stop. Harrow steered the conversation toward the River. 

The River was an unknown. _Too_ many unknowns. It could send her into madness. It could ferry her soul so far from her body that she would be lost forever, and there was no telling what might become of Gideon’s soul. Abigail and Magnus begged her to live and then Abigail Pent apologized to her; Harrow had been given more apologies in the past year than she had had the rest of her life. 

Harrow thought over her options as the ceiling started to cave in. She couldn’t be alone ( ~~she could never exist alone~~ ), but she couldn’t condemn Gideon to be absorbed into her soul either. She assured the Fifth that she would live, even though she wasn’t quite sure of that herself, in order to get them out safely—she would let no one else die for her. She didn’t say goodbye. Abigail brushed some of her hair back behind her ear ( ~~it was an apology. it was goodbye~~ ), and then with but a few more words—they were gone.

After, it was just her and Dulcinea Septimus, who took one of her hands between hers with a regretful smile and a promise of information. That information which changed everything. Gideon was awake and controlling her body—not just a soul puppeting it in a fight. Dulcinea apologized, knowingly, and disappeared in a cloud of dust from the rubble crashing down from the ceiling. 

Harrow wouldn’t die in the reality of her own creation. She reached out and ripped reality apart, popping the bubble and letting the River flow in, sweeping her up ( ~~cold, dark water filling her lungs~~ ), but then for a brief moment she was back in the pool with Gideon, underwater, her arms tightening around her. And then she surfaced—lungs burning, shivering from the cold—in the Locked Tomb. Harrow made her way to the black, icy mausoleum on the island in the centre, and flopped herself onto the shore when she made it, gasping for air, feeling the cold touch of death without the pain. She climbed to her feet and made her way down the familiar path into the mausoleum—into the Tomb. The Body was gone—chains shattered—and in its place rested a familiar two-handed sword.

* * *

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was supposed to die, and she vividly remembered the moment that became clear to her. She climbed into the empty coffin and wrapped her arms around the sword that was taller than her, unafraid of it anymore. She pulled a magazine from where it was crumpled next to her and smiled at the title: _Frontline Titties of the Fifth_. “Nav, you ass, that’s not even a real publication.” A deep feeling of comfort over came her as the coffin rocked. 

She closed her eyes, gladly burying herself in the tomb that her body had always been, and as Harrow drifted off, the rattling of 200 skeletons in her mind _finally_ went quiet.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at lover-of-many-things.tumblr.com


End file.
